


Admit it, Eve.

by groovecanon



Category: Killing Eve (TV 2018)
Genre: F/F, Fisting, Gags, Knives, Rape/Non-con Elements, Smut, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-27
Updated: 2020-12-27
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:09:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28367442
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/groovecanon/pseuds/groovecanon
Summary: Eve comes home to an eerily empty house and worries where her girlfriend-assassin could be?Dark, introspective smut. It's a thing I guess.TW: Non-Con
Relationships: Eve Polastri/Villanelle | Oksana Astankova
Comments: 4
Kudos: 77





	Admit it, Eve.

**Author's Note:**

> **TRIGGER WARNING FOR NON-CONSENSUAL SEX**

“Villanelle?”

Eve closed the door behind her, hearing the deadbolt click into place. The sound was sharper than she remembered. She’d never really noticed before. But tonight, the snap of the lock made her jump. She could hear her heart pounding.

The house was too quiet.

“Vill?” 

She felt the muscles in her neck stiffen as she called up the stairs in the entryway of their home. Every part of her body was sore, even those small muscles below her head—they ached and burned. _Must be getting a migraine_. She grimaced as she shook out her umbrella and removed her leather gloves.

Shoes off, coat on the rack—Eve looked down her shotgun hallway to the back sliding-glass door. It was dark except for the Christmas lights on their tree. It painted the dim hallway in soft pinks and greens and refracted off the rain speckled glass like so many sequins. 

She moved into the living room. More darkness, more silence, and continued through the empty house, turning on lights as she went, her anxiety growing with every step. _Why did I let Villanelle convince me to pull up the carpet?_ , she thought—annoyed. The newly revealed wood floors were old and loud. (Villanelle preferred she call them “rustic.”) Whatever you called them, they made their presence known—creaked everywhere you stepped. And tonight, their sound seemed to ricochet up her spine and directly into her occipital lobe. 

Tension. Pain. And now, worry.

Where was she? There was no job scheduled, at least, not one she’d been consulted on. And no texts or calls from her all day. 

She thought they were over this. Her not checking in, going off on spontaneous sprees of god-knew-what. Villanelle wanted to live with her, so Eve laid down the law. And guess what? She _liked_ when Eve took a heavy hand with her, and Eve enjoyed the power, so they’d fallen into a rhythm. And as time went on, Villanelle became less anxious. Less unpredictable and petulant. More obedient, really. And it was consensual… wasn’t it? Sure it was. Villanelle only liked the surface-level trappings of control—in the form of weapons maybe, violence for sure, and clothing that commanded the eye, but when it came right down to it, she didn’t want any of the _real_ control. Real responsibility. Choices that mattered. She gave it all to Eve. Whether it was what they ate, what they watched, how they fucked. Villanelle didn’t want the burden of decision. She was done with all of that, all that pretending. Point her in a direction, hand her a knife, and she’d use it. Tell her you only wanted to fuck if she got you off first, that she should wear a collar around her throat, that she needed to be spanked before she was so much as touched—she’d ask when, how tight, and how many times.

So where the fuck was she?

Another pained squeak from the floor, shooting straight to her temples. _These fucking headaches..._. But Eve hadn’t moved. Had she? No. She was standing, leaning a hand against a kitchen counter, her back to the living room and adjoining hallway. 

Panic burst from her chest down through her body. She could feel heat everywhere, eyes dilating and now a sharp ringing in one ear. _What in the bloody hell..._

She didn’t register the knife at her throat until she took a step back and felt the blade scrape against her skin. 

_Oh my god...No no...no no NO!_ She knew what this meant. She’d been compromised. Both of them. They’d come here looking for her, for Villanelle. Or maybe Vill was already dead, and now someone was here to tie up loose ends. 

She gasped as the knife pressed further in, breaking her racing thoughts along with a few layers of skin. 

“What do you want?” she said aggressively, with as much authority as she could muster, not moving a muscle. She hardly felt the blood welling and then weeping in a tiny current down her throat. She didn’t dare swallow. Even continuing to breathe felt dangerous.

She would have been impressed with how fearless she sounded if it weren't for the fact she was too busy despairing over Villanelle. If someone was here to kill her, that meant Villanelle was surely dead. Her girlfriend would never let anyone get close to hurting Eve. Not while she was alive, anyway.

Never. 

The sudden grief caught in her throat, cutting deeper than any knife could.

But then the cold sting of the steel blade was gone and she was being pushed violently against the kitchen counter, bent over, her chest and side of her face pressed into the marble, hands above her head. It felt cool against her hot skin. A fraction of relief before the unthinkable sound of cloth being torn. It was a new sound for fear. The rips through her clothes, the cold on her increasingly exposed skin.

Whoever was behind her, they’d used the knife efficiently—had even cut off her belt, causing her pants to slowly fall to the floor and pool at her feet. Part of what she assumed was her blouse was quickly stuffed into her mouth and she gagged immediately in retaliation as her hands were bound with more of her torn shirt.

Where grief had appeared, fear now took its place. And then a wild fury. Eve was not about to let this go any further. She was going to die fighting. She was counting on it.

But then a hand gripped her bare waist and she felt herself pause. The adrenaline of the impending struggle slackened in its urgency. That hand felt familiar. And as the perpetrator leaned in, breathing heavily on the back of her neck, she smelled that unmistakable scent. Sandalwood, leather, cardamom. 

Villanelle. 

“Oh you little cunt, what the fuck!?!!” she screamed. But it only came out as a muffled rant of choked anger and much squirming.

She heard her lover’s chuckle and felt the knife return to her throat, just as close as before. Just as sharp. Fear returned. She felt a forearm press hard against her back to hold her down. Legs knocked apart by a heavy military boot, spreading her wide. The air was cold on her skin, her bare ass, and her cunt too. And just as quickly as before, where fresh fear had been, intense arousal took its place. 

“You weren’t ready for me at all, were you baby?” Villanelle _tsk tsk'd_ in disapproval. “You’ve gotten comfortable,” she said flatly.

The air was still and silent except for the sound of Eve’s heavy breathing through her nose, her face pressed to the side against the green marble—no longer cool, but sticky with sweat. The adrenaline that coursed through her arms and legs had suddenly dropped to her cunt, leaving the rest of her body cold and numb. The ringing in her ears intensified. Her body was still in fight-or-flight mode but wires were being crossed with new sensory information. She wasn’t going to die and Villanelle wasn’t hurt. But she still felt a sickly fear, like she was still in danger. The blood drying on her neck was reason enough. Turns out, her girl was still a little crazy after all, and Eve was terrified. A familiar terror from years before, and the perverted desire that came with it.

“I think you’ve forgotten I can still be bad.”

Eve felt Villanelle press herself against her exposed ass.

“I think….” Villanelle whispered against Eve’s ear, “I think you’ve forgotten what it used to feel like when you weren’t in control. Do you remember that?”

A hand was slowly trailing up the side of Eve’s thigh. A violent shiver ran through her body. She realized she couldn’t feel her arms, they were still bound and raised above her head, hands flat against the marble counter. 

“Remember how afraid of me you were? Remember how that fear made you feel?” Villanelle purred.

Eve’s cunt was throbbing, her heart rate so high—she was afraid that her pulsing jugular might run so wild as to press itself mortally into Villanelle’s immovable blade. And somehow, that fear made her even more aroused. She wanted to warn the assassin. She wanted to yell and tell her to stop before they both went too far. She wasn't sure Villanelle could keep herself in control, keep herself from opening Eve up like she had so many others. But all she could do was grunt into the scratchy, wet cloth with wide, watery eyes. 

A slap rang out, beautiful and sharp. It felt like fire against her ass. She whimpered in pain.

“I don’t want to hear you at all.” Villanelle commanded, louder now—speaking in a scarlet-dark tone.

Eve couldn’t see the madness in her eyes, but Villanelle sounded wild and angry now. Just like she’d been years before, hunched and bleeding on the bed in Paris—black gun slipping between bloody hands.

“I want you to remember what it was like, the first time I found you, trembling, stumbling over yourself.” 

Another blow to her ass. It burned so fiercely, tears started to blind her vision.

“And I tackled you in the bathroom, you just wouldn't shut up. Such _annoying_ screams.”

Another slap, this time even harder.

Eve cried out—or, tried to. She blinked to push out heavy tears, feeling them roll down her exposed cheek and down across the knife. Was she bleeding again or was it just her tears wetting her neck?

“You were pathetic, fighting me, helpless, while I held you down. I had to hose you with water, remember? In the tub? Just to shut you up. But I knew. I _knew_ you were soaked before I even turned the handle.”

Eve felt the knife press a little deeper. _Fuck, she’s out of her mind...._

“I bet you were ashamed of that, later, in the kitchen,” she chuckled to herself. “Sitting at the table with a wet, aching pussy while I sat next to you and ate your pathetic husband’s food. I knew even then—that first time—what you really wanted.” 

She could hear Villanelle thinking, her breathing was quick and heavy. 

“What you really wanted, Eve, was for me to bend you over, lift up that lovely dress I’d bought you, and fuck you like you wished your husband would.”

Eve felt her cunt immediately being filled, her wetness allowing for whatever Villanelle wanted to give her. But she wasn’t ready, even though her body was. She'd had no warning, and this was anything but gentle. She was being fucked hard with three—maybe four—fingers, and at a relentless pace, her hip bones pressed painfully into the lip of the counter. And the knife, ever-present, never faltered from its position against her throat. Fear and adrenaline rocked through her to the pace of the assassin’s thrusts. And holy fuck, she was actually getting off to this.

She closed her eyes, mortified, and moaned into her gag like a pacifier.

“See?” Villanelle cooed. She leaned down and took a quick swipe at Eve’s exposed neck with her tongue. It was salty with sweat and fear.

“I knew you’d like it this way. And I was right. You’ve gotten comfortable. You forgot, Eve, how lucky you are. That you’re special to me. You forgot just how many people _aren’t_ special to me at all. They’re fodder. They’re sheep. Useless. Boring. And they bleed like sheep too, crying and shrieking. But not you, Eve.”

Fingers soon became a fist as she felt that last knuckle pass and stretch her pussy to its limit, never relenting, only pushing for more and more. It felt like she was being torn open—the pain. But then she felt so full and just… _used_. She felt her body go slack, opening wider for Villanelle’s hand. And she found herself pressing her neck dangerously against the blade’s edge, like Villanelle was actually right. Maybe this is what she’d always wanted. To be afraid, to be forced, to be fucked without tenderness. She felt wildly out of control, like when she’d thrown those champagne bottles in a fit of madness, imagining they were grenades—hoping the shrapnel would pierce her, too.

And it was like she was back in Paris; there was a knife and some blood but this time she was the one being penetrated, fucked between fist and blade. There was no fight now, not this time. And she didn’t care how this ended. Either end—blade or cunt—felt like bliss now. She could die bleeding or die cumming and it would all be the same to her because everything felt like nothing, the most amazing nothing she’d ever experienced. She was ragged and open for Villanelle. Hers to control, to play with. Anything Villanelle wanted, Eve would give. She didn’t have a choice, anyway. And she definitely didn't care.

“You don’t sound like them at all, though.” Villanelle was huffing from exertion. “You scream but I don’t think it’s because you’re afraid to die. Your screams sound like you want to lose everything, lose everything to me. To be _mine_ ,” she growled. 

Eve whimpered with every thrust. She could feel that fist hit against something inside her that had never been touched before. It terrified her, to have someone control her like this. Yet here she was, numb on the counter—not fighting at all—getting fucked like a ragdoll, loving every second of it. 

“I’m right, aren’t I?”

Eve barely heard the question over her now constant moaning.

“You’d lay your throat on the slab for me, just like this, just to feel my wrath open you up, even if it was for the last time. Even if it killed you. That’s how special you are, Eve. You’re different, just like me. I didn’t want you to forget.”

Eve realized she’d been orgasming throughout this entire interrogation, only answering with grunts of pleasure or moans of agreement. But just like the hand pumping inside her, her orgasms wouldn’t let go. They kept building in waves—they wouldn’t stop and neither, it seemed, would Villanelle. She kept cumming, peaking and breaking and building all over again. Her legs shook uncontrollably. The pain and the fear wouldn’t let her rest, wouldn’t stop feeding her desire for this—whatever _this_ was. She was grateful for the gag now. It was a comfort—holding in what little of her remained. Her moans had become obscene sounding things. Groans and cries and whimpers of “yes” around wet cloth. Disdainful pleasure. She was rocking into Villanelle now, not wanting the experience to end—knowing that shame would soon follow, which only aroused her more. But eventually, her body stopped. She didn’t remember when or how long but the knife was gone and she was empty inside. A slab of meat, worked to its softest grain.

“Admit it, Eve.” 

She heard a voice from far behind her now.

“You’re glad I was here.”

**Author's Note:**

> I guess this was an exploration of both characters' darker psycho-sexual natures and pasts within their relationship before and after they are a couple.
> 
> Hopefully I gave y'all enough warnings so no one yell at me, ok?
> 
> Cool.
> 
> @KeYeehaw on twitter.


End file.
